


Tout vient à point à qui sait attendre

by sagiow



Series: Season 3 That Never Was - sagiow Edition [3]
Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Civil War, Confessions, Conversations, Dialogue Heavy, Doubt, F/M, Hospitals, Late Night Conversations, Season 3 that never was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 11:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13926165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: Time ripens all things; with Time all things are revealed; Time is the father of truth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Read "Never Say Enough" ahead as a cold open for this Episode 2 - Season 3 that Never Was - sagiow Edition

_Every morning was the same._

_The progressive stirring of wounded bodies, soft moans escaping their lips as consciousness returned, chasing away the dreams in which they remained whole, and healthy, surrounded by their families, the war itself a dream never dreamt._

_Cries for assistance, for sustenance, for comfort, unanswered until an able body walked by: a nun, or perhaps an orderly, tending to the fires that had dimmed to softly glowing ambers in the late November chill. Then, the nurses, returning to their post; that beacon of charity in the grimness of the wards, after the swift judgement of the surgeons, their fate sealed with the stroke of a saw. A kind word, a soft touch, a proffered cup, as one by one, the patients woke; a silent prayer, a suppressed tear, for the ones who, every morning, would not._

 

That morning, Henry Hopkins sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, and listened attentively to Belinda Gibson’s recommendations, as she attempted to prepare a soup from the previous evening’s leftover beef scraps and the few limp vegetables left in the cellar.

“Well, first off,” she began, “you have the Greens themselves. Aside from the hotel and the furniture factory, Mr. Green owns a large oats-producing farm. We could do a lot with good oats.”

Henry had no need to write that name down and just stared, wide-eyed. “Is that so? I’m surprised Miss Green has not brought it up,” he said, puzzled.

Belinda shrugged. “Could be Miss Emma was never much aware of it. They brought up them girls to be fine Southern ladies, not farmers or grain dealers. Up ‘til recently, as long as they had pretty things and fun parties to attend, they didn’t seem much concerned about where the money that paid for it came from.”

Hopkins did not initially respond: knowing Emma’s upbringing, such a comment should not have shocked him, but he still found himself slightly discomforted by it. “Still, I’ll be sure to ask her view on the matter, and she’ll probably have more success than I in petitioning her father.”

Belinda shot him a side glance, but let the matter drop. Stirring the pot, she continued her inventory. “The Mason family, father and sons, has a few plantations in the area. Mostly tobacco, but each has a small farm, some orchards. Good friends of Mr. Green, and one of the sons a schoolmate of Master Green.”

The pen scratched away. “Very well, that’s promising.”

“Out west, there’s the Kings,” Belinda carried on. “Mostly corn, some cattle. Whisky. Mrs. King was a childhood friend of Mrs. Green, and their daughters are close.”

“Milk and whisky, that ought to make the soldiers happy. And Nurse Hastings,” he jabbed, but Belinda was already on to her next target. “Here in town, there’s Nathaniel Price. Works in exports, mostly grain and cotton to England. Does plenty of business with Mr. Green. Maybe he’d be willing to spare some wheat, or refer you to the mills and weavers. I’m sure upstairs could use more bandages too.”

Henry was beginning to feel overwhelmed. “Is there anyone in Alexandria the Greens don’t know?”

Belinda stared at him dubiously. “Of course not. They the richest family in a small town. New money, married into old Founding Fathers names. They all related somehow.”

Henry dropped his pen, gazing at the list. Members of government, prosperous merchants, high ranking military officers, prominent clergymen and scholars… Even the estate names were intimidating: Woodlawn, Huntley, Colross, Mount Eagle, Okeley Manor…

“Maybe I’ll start with the smaller Quaker farms along the way,” he stated, dejected.

Belinda set her hands on her hips. “No you won’t. They won’t have anything to spare, not for a hospital this size, not to mention Miss Jenkins’ camp.”

At this, Henry could only laugh bitterly. “Of course: I’m off to appeal to slave-holding men for food to feed Union soldiers and the Contraband. That can only end in resounding success.”

“Well not if you say that, and say it like that,” she reprimanded him, her wooden spoon flailing around as if to underline her words. “Them folks, they like long sentences that don’t say much. You gotta hide your demands in flattery, compliments. Keep out the parts they won’t like. Make them think helping you was their idea all along, if not they’ll never give you anything.”

“I don’t know how to do that, Mrs. Gibson,” he exclaimed, then leaning forward to pinch the bridge of his nose, the task at hand suddenly becoming outrageous. “I think I made a mistake. I’m woefully inadequate for this job. I’m a just a poor man of God, who can share Our Lord’s good Word, comfort the men in their hour of need, or, at most, debate theology.... I know nothing of plantations, politics and polished words.”

There was a hint of amused annoyance in Belinda’s eyes then. “I know _you_ don’t. You need to bring along someone who does, who’s known them all forever, who can charm them in her sleep.”

He hesitated. “Her? You mean… Miss Green?”

“One of them, yes. Miss Alice might be the better choice: she’s been buttering and manipulating people since she was in her crib.” Seeing Henry’s disheartened face, she continued. “But Miss Emma understands our needs, and cares for her patients more than that silly sister of hers ever did about anything. And she’s a lot more persistent. When she sets her mind on something, she’s hard to shake off.”

The stare she shot him then made it abundantly clear that her reference was not only to the hospital. Despite his inner turmoil at the implication, Henry met her eye, impassive, and nodded. “Yes, she is…. an admirable young lady. Her dedication to nursing has been a model to us all.”

“She ain’t that young, Chaplain,” she continued, narrowing her eyes. “I seen her gain years since she started working here. And she’s smarter than she lets on. She may come across as delicate and gentle, but let me tell you, there’s fire in her. Always been. You best be careful not to get yourself burnt.”

He knew then that further feigning ignorance, both to Belinda and himself, would be pointless. The way she had pursued him after Ayres’ farm, demanding answers and attention, refusing all excuses… he had tasted firsthand what it meant to be in Emma Green’s line of sight. And he did not trust himself not to take all the bullets she would fire at him, until he was pierced to shreds. That is, if she would have him, which he could not believe could ever truly be the case.

He raised his eyes to the older woman again, meeting her gaze with quiet resolve. “As I said… I’m just a poor man of God. I’m woefully inadequate.”

She shook her head at him, and for the first time in their discussion, her lips curled up in a sympathetic smile. “You’re a good man, Mr. Hopkins, worth more than all these fine folks put together. And smarter than you let on, too, despite saying such nonsense. You just… mind yourselves. Take your time. All things come to those who wait.”

The impact of her words struck him, as who other had ever been so patient in life, so faithful in love, than this remarkable woman? She who had waited decades to finally be united with the one she had chosen, trusting in God to bring them together when the time was right? His face betrayed him then, as he realized that her warnings might have been hiding encouragement all along. To find such an unexpected ally was beyond a blessing, and he held on with both hands to her proffered help.

“Mrs. Gibson… Would you please accompany us, when we visit the plantations? I don’t think it would be… respectable for us to go without a proper chaperone.”

“No, Chaplain. My job is here, and at the Greens’. Yours and Miss Emma’s to find them boys something decent to eat, and heal their wounds. I trust you’ll do just fine.” She came up to him then, and touched his shoulder. “Just don’t get lost on the way.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Every afternoon was the same._

_All wards a jumble of people, of movement, of sound. The activity pitch reaching such a level many believed they still remained on the battlefield, wounded, their weapons lost, completely at the mercy of the ongoing assault. Patients forcibly removed from their beds, returned in a daze, a limb missing, yet still oddly present, its ghost haunting its former home. Visitors aghast, at the ones they knew and lost, at the ones they loved but no longer recognized. Caretakers passing from one patient to the next; constantly cleaning, nursing, soothing, yet their efforts never enough, the beds never empty, the pain never past._

_Yet still they rallied, and pushed forth, in the hope that one day, it would be._

 

That late afternoon, in an attempt against the chill and fatigue, Jedediah Foster had shut the curtains, stoked the fire, and was just sitting down for a warm beverage in his office, when Samuel Diggs knocked at the opened door.

“Come in, Mr. Diggs,” Foster greeted him, congenially. “May I offer you some insipid coffee? Or not-so-sweet rolls?”

“Hello Doctor, and no thanks, I’ve eaten already,” Samuel replied. “They’re really not that bad, the rolls.”

“Yes, I know, I’m being facetious,” Jed sighed and he dropped into his chair, staring sullenly at the food. “I just wish we could have a cow or twelve for some cream and butter.”

Samuel could only nod as he walked up to the desk. “Chaplain Hopkins is setting out to do some scouting in the area this week. Maybe he’ll find us some.”

“That would be a fine day indeed. But nonetheless, we shall survive, rolls sweet or dry. What can I do for you?” he asked, gesturing to the chair in front of him.

Samuel took it and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, visibly preoccupied. “I need your advice, about a patient in the camp. The woman I delivered a few weeks ago.”

“Ah yes, your second in a month, after my broth… after Julia,” Jedediah remembered. “Mar- Nurse Phinney also mentioned her. What seems to ail her?”

Samuel shrugged. “I don’t know. She is weak, tired. Short of breath, sometimes, with heart palpitations. Doesn’t get up much, so her ankles are swollen. But otherwise, nothing abnormal.”

Jedidiah evaluated this. “Could be a wide variety of things, or nothing at all, considering she is postpartum. Anemia, malaria, some infection?”

“She has no fever, no specific pain,” Samuel responded. “Some cough, and complains of cold, but who doesn’t with this weather?”

The doctor was baffled, and shook his head helplessly. “And the child?”

“Healthy enough, but I wouldn’t say thriving. She feeds him best she can, but it doesn’t seem to be enough.”

Foster sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “Yet another case where that wretched cow would be useful. Very well, I’ll come by later today to see her. Make sure she gets plenty of nutritious food until then… or as close as it gets in our current situation.” Samuel thanked him and stood to leave, but Foster half-rose as well, beckoning his attention an instant longer.

“Samuel, I was wondering,” he started, visibly uneasy. “How is Julia settling in? I’ve asked her myself, but she’s quite guarded, understandably, and only replies politely that all is well. Does she talk to you?”

Samuel crossed his arms, pondering the question. “I think she speaks the truth. She and the baby are strong and healthy, surrounded by people who mean her no harm. She comes by the camp every day, speaks with the other former slaves, with Charlotte and I. She’s still figuring out her place in all this, evaluating her options. But she’s grateful, and relieved, no question about that.”

Reassured, Jed pressed on. “Is she comfortable downstairs? I know it’s not ideal, especially with a child, but the hospital is as close to a home as I have right now, and I thought it would be more suitable than the camp.”

“It’s fine, Dr. Foster,” Diggs soothed him. “A world better than what she had at your family’s plantation, thanks to you. So don’t worry yourself so much. But… if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your house?”

Jed cringed, but made no attempt to deflect the conversation. “Sold it, through the divorce proceedings. Not that I minded one bit: I have no need for a grand house, while I work here, late into the evenings more days than not. Besides, it was Eliza’s choice, not my personal taste at all, so I was glad to let it go. I’ll find something more suitable when… the time’s right,” he added, fidgeting with some documents.

Samuel hesitated: he was the first perplexed at the apparent yet absolutely unbelievable formal distance the Chief Surgeon and the Head Nurse imposed upon themselves since her return, and the doctor’s comment only added to his confusion. “I’m sure it won’t be long,” he reassured him, not meaning to pry.

“Are you? Because I myself am not so certain anymore.”

The look that fell upon Jedidiah’s face then was that of a man lost, and about to give up the search. Knowing this would not be a conversation for anyone else’s ears – and rather unbelieving that it could be for his own-, Samuel delicately shut the door, before returning to his seat, and giving the wretched man his full attention.

“What makes you doubt it?” he asked softly.

Jedidiah sat down as well, staring into the fire, trying to give order to the thoughts that assaulted him. “I don’t understand why she is so intent on having us wait,” he sighed, despondent. “After such an illness, with this wonderful second chance we’ve been given… I don’t want to waste one more moment, yet she seems quite content for us to carry on as we did before…” At Samuel’s raised eyebrows, he looked down sheepishly. “Well, not _exactly_ as we did before, of course. But she wants us to keep it quiet, while I want to shout it from the rooftops. Why is that? Is she ashamed of me, somehow? Did she just accept me out of gratitude, or relief to be alive, and is now regretting it?”

“Has she said anything to that effect?” Samuel replied, the disbelief clear in his voice.

Jedidiah hesitated. “No, on the contrary, but… why else? She speaks of the important work to be done, and Miss Dix to appease, and the people to help, and all of it being paramount over our life together. Why am I not convinced? What is it I don’t see?”

Samuel shrugged slightly. “Well, those are good reasons," he answered cautiously. "After being bedridden for so long, it's only normal that she'd want to return to a life of normalcy."

"Normalcy, yes, but secrecy? And what would be abnormal about us being married, exactly? She could still work here, in some capacity, if it pleased her. At least we could drop this ridiculous pantomime, and have a home to come to, at the end of the day," he added, with wishful sadness.

Samuel pondered this gravely, rubbing his hands as he searched for the right words to phrase his intuition. "Now, I don’t presume to know Nurse Mary very well, especially on such… delicate matters, but if we’re anything alike, I suspect she might feel… guilty.”

“Guilty?!” exclaimed Foster, taken aback. “However do you mean?”

Samuel looked the other man straight in the eye, and spoke slowly, yet deliberately. “Dr. Foster, I’m a free black man. I grew up in the house of a good doctor, who not only treated me well, but shared his medical knowledge with me. Meanwhile, everywhere around us, millions of black people are enslaved, and abused, their families torn apart, their lives not even their own. Why did _I_ get to escape this fate? Why me? I’m no better than any one of them. I don’t _deserve_ any better.”

He reined in the anger that had mounted then, and continued, no less bitterly. “So, yes, this guilt… this is why I stay here, and work, and fight to help my people, instead of running off to medical school to improve my own lot in life. Because I’ve already been given such an impossible gift, and the least I can do is share it with the people who were not so lucky.”

He let it sink in for an instant. “So, you see, Nurse Mary… she’s survived a disease that’s claimed dozens of lives, just at this hospital. Thousands, out in the camps and battlefields. She’s cheated death, just as I’ve cheated slavery. So maybe what she wants now is to pay back that debt by postponing her own happiness just a little, so she may help others survive as well.”

Jedediah could only stare contritely as he processed his friend’s words, and he buried his face in his hands. “I’m such a selfish fool,” he muttered. “Please forgive me.”

“Nothing for me to forgive: there’s nothing more normal than to want to be with someone you love. Just give her time, and support, and let her work through what she feels she must,” Samuel suggested, before smirking slightly. “And maybe then you’ll get yourselves that farm, and that cow you so dream of?”

Jed chuffed at the idea, but it seemed to take a hold of him, and command his whole being. Lost in his thoughts and remorse, he could only nod slightly, and murmur: “That would be a fine day indeed.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Every night was the same._

_In the dimming light, the wards came to rest. Patients curled up in their beds, attempting to find sleep and comfort through the constant woe and pain. One by one, the staff retired, some for much needed rest, others for an instant of recreation, and many more just for a moment to , at last, call their own._

_In the late hours of yet another day, there was finally peace to be had, to contemplate the future and mourn the past; and for some, to try and take, against all odds and better judgement, some evanescent happiness from the imperfect present._

 

In the darkness, the latch clicked. Softly, the door was pushed open, and closed just as carefully. The oil lamp was placed on the small table, illuminating her flushed cheeks, her heaving chest. A quick glance towards the sleeping form reassured her that her witness slept. For an instant, she stood against the door, striving to regain her wits and composure after the emotion of the last minutes, before making her way to the curtained corner of the room to change. Then, emerging in her nightgown, she sat at the vanity to unpin and brush her hair, the hint of a smile on her face, eyes shining bright.

Every night, for days on end, Emma had feigned sleep, allowing her friend this moment of privacy, but tonight, she could no longer keep silent.

“Why do you do it, Mary?”

Startled, Mary jerked and dropped her brush. “Goodness, Emma, you scared me!” she cried. “I thought you were asleep.”

Pushing the blanket away, Emma raised herself on one elbow, staring at her friend’s reflection in the mirror, and waited for an answer that never came. “Well?” she finally asked again.

“Well, what?” Mary replied, visibly annoyed at the unplanned forthcoming conversation.

“Well, why do you and Dr. Foster carry on like this? Hiding like outlaws, when you are both free to be together?”

Mary’s eyes went wide, and Emma would have regretted the brusqueness of her inquiry if she wasn’t so eager for enlightenment, after weeks of witnessing secrets that fooled no one. She watched her friend collect her thoughts, weigh her words, and finally set her mouth. “Emma… I don’t mean to be unkind, but I really don’t need to explain myself to you.”

This greatly irritated the younger woman. “Yes you do!” she exclaimed in as hushed a voice as she could muster as she sat up. “Every night I watch you come in, all flustered and troubled, and I don’t say anything. If people ask questions, I gladly lie, and tell them you were here with me the whole evening. I want to know why it is you torture yourselves so, now that you’ve recovered from typhoid and he’s divorced. What on Earth are you waiting for?”

The stare Mary shot her through the glass was inscrutable. “Things are more complicated than that.”

“What is complicated, exactly?” Emma replied, her hands splayed out helplessly. “You’re both adults, unattached, and visibly very fond of one another.”

“Well, so were you with Frank Stringfellow. Why didn’t you marry him?”

Emma bristled at having her former beau brought up. “We were young, he was not yet established. My father would never have given his consent. But you, you’re not exactly…” Mary frowned then, and Emma scrambled to change course. “He’s an army doctor. You’re a widow. You don’t need anyone’s permission or blessing.”

“Yes, precisely,” Mary snapped. “For the first time in my life, I don’t need anyone’s permission.”

At her friend’s quizzical expression, Mary exhaled loudly, and dropped her forehead in her palm. For a moment, she stayed as such, and Emma could feel her debating with herself, with the raging contradictions that flooded her brain, that should remain safely hidden there but screamed to be let out. Finally, she sighed and turned to face her, her expression conflicted behind her usual patient poise.

“Emma, as women, from the moment we are born, we are a man’s property. First our father’s, then our husband’s. In my case, even my younger brother became my legal guardian after our father died: do you have any idea how frustrating that was? Then I married Gustav, and although we were happy, everything I owned was his by right. And then, so shortly afterwards, he died; at first, I was absolutely heart-broken, but then I realized I was free to make my own choices: he left me with some money and property, and I could now seek employment and collect a salary in my own name. You might not understand it, but it is truly liberating, to be the only master of your life. Should I marry again, I would have to give it all up once more.”

“But surely the love of a good man is worth more than that?” Emma asked, anxiously.

“Is it?” Mary asked back, taking the lamp and rising to walk to her own bed. “Love is precious, and exciting, and wonderful, but those butterflies and somersaults don’t always last. A marriage needs stronger, more reliable bases to withstand time and trials: mutual respect and understanding. Friendship. Complete trust. Common goals and dreams.”

The list appeared daunting to the young woman. “And Dr. Foster and you do not share these things?” she asked, despondently.

“I think we do, but I just need to be sure.” Mary placed the lamp on their shared nightstand, and drew back the quilt before sitting on her bed. “You see, there was much more than his marriage keeping us apart before: we come from extremely different backgrounds, and have opposing values on some very important matters, and have clashed terribly over them in the past. I need to know whether we’ve bridged this gap, or if it will prove to be our undoing over time.”

“I don’t think it can be,” Emma replied, folding her legs up in a hug and resting her chin on her knee. “I’ve seen how he looks at you; when you walk in the room, everything else vanishes. He only sees you, and cares of you.”

Mary tried to mask the pleasure this comment gave her, and failed. “This could be just a passing infatuation, and happiness at having cured me,” she rationalized, as she slid her legs under the covers. “Not to mention a dangerous liability to our patients.”

“Even more reason to marry him already and be together outside the hospital!” Emma exclaimed.

At this, Mary shook her head vehemently. “No, that is what I most fervently wish to avoid. I want to work here while the war lasts, with the soldiers, and in the camp. Help people, nurse them back to health, to a good life… It’s much too crucial to give up.”

“Why would you have to give it up?” Emma asked, confused. “Even if Miss Dix dismissed you for getting married, Dr. Foster could give you the position; as Chief Surgeon, he doesn’t have to follow Miss Dix’s appointment anymore.”

“Maybe not,” Mary conceded, as she smoothed the blanket on her lap contemplatively. “But to cross Miss Dix would be to lose her support, and the access to her network and resources. In our current strained state, we absolutely cannot afford this.”

The younger woman pondered this. “But surely you could part on good terms? Recommend someone in your stead? She might lack your diplomacy, but Nurse Hastings has been maintaining the high standards you established for the nurses, not to mention constantly exhorting us to improve our medical skills.” Emma replied. “You would no longer be Head Nurse, but I’m sure Dr. Foster would be glad to have you work at the hospital and in the camp, if those are your wishes.”

“Then you truly don’t know Jedediah Foster,” Mary retorted. “I’m afraid he’d want to shelter me, keep me safe beyond reasonable risks. When I returned to Alexandria, at first I found his constant attention and concern endearing, but it’s frankly starting to drive me mad. As long as I report to Miss Dix, there’s nothing he can do about it, but the moment I marry him, he would be within his rights to forbid me access to the hospital.”

“Can you blame him? You almost died; of course he wants to make sure you are well now.”

There was a barely repressed anger in Mary’s tone then. “If I almost died, it is because I was shipped away to Boston with no interference from anyone.”

It was Emma’s turn to gasp. “Mary, surely you know we all tried to stop it! But McBurney would not be swayed, and he even dispatched Dr. Foster away for the day to make sure he would not try everything in his power to keep you here.”

There was no more repression then, as her hands clenched around the hem of the quilt. “McBurney sent me away, but Jed let me go. He got to the dock in time, before I boarded the boat, but then he just… let me go. And stayed away, for weeks, without as much as a single letter. I know it shouldn’t matter, that I should just be glad that he did finally make the voyage and helped save me, and relish the affection he has so completely given me since, but remember that complete trust I mentioned? How can I completely trust someone who abandoned me when I needed him the most?”

Emma was speechless then, as the amplitude of her friend’s fear finally became clear. “I want to trust him, Emma,” Mary cried, her voice breaking. “With all my heart. For I do love him fearfully, and more recklessly every day. But he wasn’t there for me then, and I’m afraid he won’t be some day again. And that I could not bear.”

The young woman could only stare, in distraught shock, her mouth gaping slightly. “I’m so sorry, Mary,” she finally whispered. “I had no idea. Please forgive my intrusion.”

Mary saw that the doubt she suffered seemed to have spread to her friend, and once the surge of emotion passed, she regretted her candor. “No, you please forgive my outburst. These concerns are only my own,” she soothed her, trying to regain her composure. “You should not take them so to heart, nor believe they need apply to your own situation.”

Emma frowned. “My situation with Frank is quite resolved, I assure you,” she replied, bitingly.

Mary sighed once more, sorry for her former allusion. “I think you know he’s not the one I was referring to.”

Despite the darkness, the flush that crept up her the younger woman’s cheek was unmistakable. “Is it that obvious, then?” she demurred.

“That he’s absolutely besotted with you? It’s been quite clear for quite some time, my dear.”

At Emma’s radiant relief, she pressed on. “Has he declared himself yet?”

Emma hesitated. “No, not per se… but, there’s been… moments.” She could see the shadows from the furrowing of Mary’s brows, and only blushed deeper. “Nothing to concern yourself about. He is a chaplain, after all.”

Her friend’s expression softened, and she half-smiled. “With you as witness of my own slightly risqué behaviour, it would be quite hypocritical of me to pass judgement on your courtship. Please, continue.”

Thankful of her confidence, Emma pressed on, forlornly. “I don’t think he will declare himself. Not yet, at least. He must know my parents would not allow it. I’m certain they still hope for a glorious Dixie match for their daughter, despite her latest subversions and treachery. And I sometimes feel he himself rather agrees with them.”

She looked so miserable then, cradling her legs to her chest for comfort, that Mary shifted to her side, to better face her friend. “He’s an honest and hard-working man, who only wants the best for those around him. As offspring of self-made men, I’m sure your parents would learn to see and appreciate that, even if he’s not from some old, respectable Southern family. But on the whole, there is only one advice I can give you, if I may.”

“Of course.”

“Think beyond the altar. Think of what your life would be with him, once the honeymoon is over. As a modest minister’s wife. Of what you’ll gain, yes, but also of what you might lose. Of what would happen, should disaster strike.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “Disaster? How grim.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be. I just want you to be prepared for more than rose-tinted bliss.”

“Oh, I don’t expect much of that, not anymore,” she conceded. “I’m well aware that starting off in life poor, and in a strained relationship with my parents, would be difficult for us both. And where would that life take us, exactly? It’s not something we ever discussed, and until recently, I never even envisioned that it may be outside of Virginia, away from everything I’m familiar with. And then, what you said earlier about different backgrounds, common goals and dreams … I don’t know him well enough to answer that. Heavens, I don’t even know _myself_ well enough anymore!”

Mary tilted her head sympathetically. “Do be lenient with yourself: our whole country doesn’t know itself anymore, and you’re trying to imagine your future when we barely know what tomorrow might bring. Just give yourself time: time to grow into who you want to become, and find what it is you truly want, in this uncertain new world of ours.”

She reached across the small gap between their beds then, to touch the young woman’s arm. “I do believe you two could be remarkably happy together, but those questions you have deserve to be asked, and it might take a while to receive the right answers.”

Emma nodded gratefully, a glimmer of hope peeking through the gloom. “Thank you. For listening to me, and for sharing your own concerns.”

Mary returned her smile, when a slight shadow crossed her brow. “Emma… how… obvious is it, Dr. Foster and I? To the others?”

The young woman shrugged good-naturedly. “To visitors and patients, your behavior must be exemplary, and I’m sure they don’t suspect a thing. But to those of us who know you two, and have known you since before your illness, well…” She only raised her eyebrows sheepishly.

Mary’s face fell, and Emma quickly continued: “But know that we only rejoice of it, and although I’m sure I am not the only one to fail to understand why you were so intent on keeping it a secret, none of us would ever betray it. You deserve what little… reckless happiness can be found in these dark days… and nights,” she added with an impish smile.

“Don’t make me regret telling you all this,” Mary replied, turning off the lamp to hide the flame on her cheeks, as her friend tittered. “From now on, I think I shall follow my own good counsel rather more carefully.”

“Oh please don’t! It’s such entertaining gossip, and ever more romantic than Dr. Hale and Nurse Hastings’ little dalliance.”

The squeak of bedsprings from across the gap came to an abrupt stop, and silence met darkness. Once more, Emma waited for an answer, but all she heard was a final shuffle of blankets, and a head dropped heavily onto its pillow.

“….Good night, Emma.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to further explore and build up the strain put on our two favorite couples by their courtship choices, hopes and fears; not much resolution provided, but the season is young! Since middlemarch and I seem to circulate on the same orbit, I acknowledge that the theme of time/waiting is similar to her Episode 1. 
> 
> I slightly escaped the tediousness of historically/medically accurate writing with this little trio of heart-to-hearts. I completely failed to escape the dialog-heavy writing. Next time I think I'll give up prose entirely and just write a bloody screenplay.
> 
> My apologies to fans of Charlotte, Anne, Hale and Matron. They are around, and I meant to give them some screen time, but I ended up liking the symmetry of these three pairings (not to mention it took me way too long to write as it is). They will be back in Chapter 3!
> 
> Both the title and summary are attributed to François Rabelais, a French Renaissance writer. "Tout vient à point à qui sait attendre" translates to "All things come to those who wait", as said by Belinda. Original text from summary: "Le temps mûrit toutes choses; par le temps toutes choses viennent en évidence; le temps est père de la vérité."


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